


she's gone

by greedlings



Series: badthingshappenbingo [7]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Cane user Jon, Gen, based in earlyish s2, it's only mentioned once but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:07:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23273704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greedlings/pseuds/greedlings
Summary: Martin wasn't expecting to find Jon asleep in the archives in the dead of night, and he certainly wasn't expecting to snap at him.
Series: badthingshappenbingo [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1643200
Comments: 1
Kudos: 70





	she's gone

**Author's Note:**

> woot woot, two in one day baybey! this is fic seven of my badthingshappen bingo, and it's 'anger born of worry' with martin!
> 
> if you'd like to req a fic, head over to my twitter @/greedlings and check out my pinned!

So much had happened, and it had all happened much too fast for Martin.

Jon was weak—he always  _ had _ been, Martin supposed—and recent events had left Jon’s hair streaked with silver and his joints and muscles aching. He wouldn’t admit it, of course, but Martin could see in his face when his movements pained him, and he noticed when Jon put slightly more weight on his cane, or when his face went pale with the exertion of walking through the institute. 

A small part of Martin’s brain wanted to blame himself, but no; Prentiss had already known where the institute was, and even if she  _ had _ killed Martin before making her way here,  _ she would have still made it here _ . In fact, perhaps if Martin  _ had  _ been murdered, had been infested with those silver parasites and left a husk in his apartment, worms making their way through the cavities of his hollowed body, the institute would have been  _ less _ prepared for the attack. 

That voice was still there in the back of his mind, however—that gentle  _ it’s all your fault _ that he had carried with him so long—and it was ever so slightly louder whenever Martin saw Jon, those circular scars where the worms had almost wriggled their way into his flesh that covered Jon’s body like a blanket.

Maybe that’s why Martin snapped when he saw Jon in the archives so late, a cold cup of coffee by the keys of his laptop, humming gently against the silence of the archivists office.

“Jon.  _ Jon _ ,” Martin said, shaking the archivist’s shoulder. Jon started, his head shooting up from the keys of his laptop. His hand slid across the track-pad as he turned towards Martin, his eyes wide in fear, and the screen lit up. The room was flooded with white light from whatever documents Jon had open. Martin didn’t get to see anything that the documents said, however, before Jon slammed the laptop with a force that unnerved Martin. 

“Oh, Martin, I didn’t… I didn’t think you were still here.” Jon blinked the sleep out of his eyes, but even that didn’t shrug off the weariness that hung in the air around Jon, darkening his eyes and weighing down his shoulders.

“I wasn’t,” Martin said, taking a step back and into the door frame, “I forgot something. But  _ I  _ didn’t think that  _ you  _ were still here, Jon.”

Jon shook his head, still trying desperately to shake his exhaustion, “I-I must have fallen asleep. I was-I was doing some research, and-” Jon’s excuse was cut short by a large yawn that seemed to come upon him all at once. Jon shoved his face into his shoulder in his best attempt to stifle the yawn; his efforts were in vain, however, and Martin watched for a moment as the yawn took its course.

“You need to go home, Jon. You need to sleep.”

“No, Martin, I-I’m okay, I still need to finish up this research and-”

“No, Jon, you aren’t okay! Ever since the attack you’ve been… you’ve been  _ paranoid _ . She’s  _ gone, Jon _ . You don’t have to worry about Prentiss anymore!”

“I’m not worried about Prentiss, Martin.” Jon sighed. He shook his head, then stopped it facing his desk. His eyes rested on the urn, on Jane Prentiss’ ashes, and, barely whispering, said, “Not anymore. She’s gone.”

“Then what  _ are  _ you worried about? 

“I-Martin I-”

“ _ What  _ are you  _ worried  _ about, Jon?” Marin repeated, his voice sharper than he had truly wanted.

Jon was quiet, his eyebrows furrowed and breathing slow. They both knew very well what was plaguing Jon’s thoughts—Martin wished with all of his heart that he had never found Gertrude’s body in those  _ stupid  _ tunnels; if he hadn’t, maybe Jon wouldn’t be sitting at his desk, so late in the night that Martin was sure that they were tho only two awake in the whole of London. Maybe Jon would still be himself, abrasive and almost unbearable, yes, but not  _ paranoid _ .

Martin asked one more time, his voice almost a whisper as he said, “Jon, what are you worried about?”

“You know as well as I do, Martin. If Gertrude was murdered-”

“No one wants to murder you, Jon.” Martin crossed his arms, only mostly out of anger; it was  _ cold _ in the institute, more so than it had been when Martin was staying in the spare office.

Jon sighed, and he seemed to release some of the tension held in his muscles. He looked so  _ small _ , so fragile, as if one wrong move from Martin would shatter him. His jaw remained clenched, however, making his face look almost gaunt in the dim light of the institute, “I… I want to believe you, Martin. I really do. But-”

“But the possibility of one of us being a murderer is too high for you.”

“I just… I need to be  _ sure _ , Martin. I need to know.”

Martin sighed. Jon was being  _ ridiculous _ , but he was also tired. He was  _ scared _ , and as much as Martin wanted to still be angry, he found his anger dissipating when he looked at Jon. “Well, you can know later. For now, you need to get home.” 

Jon shook his head, but Martin shot him a look—he couldn’t tell whether it was angry or caring or anywhere between—and Jon sighed. “I… I suppose you’re right. I’m sorry, Martin. For worrying you.”

It was Martin’s turn to sigh, a long breath that seemed to expel any anger from his lungs. Martin didn’t know why it was Jon that did that to him, why the sad, scared look in his eyes and the exhausted slumping of his shoulders made a lump in Martin’s throat, but he could seem to help it. “Come on,” Martin said, taking a step towards the archivist, “I’ll help you put your stuff away.”

“Oh, Martin, you don’t have to.”

“I  _ want _ to, Jon.”

Jon sighed, the bags under his eyes heavy as a small smile pushed its way onto his face.

“Thank you, Martin.”

That was enough for Martin.

**Author's Note:**

> comments are always appreciated! <3<3
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @/greecllings and on twitter @/greedlings_


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